by Lev Raphael
“Damn straight,” Davenport said, and I had no idea what part of her remarks he was agreeing with.
I wondered if Grace-Dawn was going to mention Wharton’s lip lack when she explored Wharton’s passion and pain.
“What do you think about a Marianne Williamson conference? It could be sexy and spiritual!”
Davenport laughed. “She doesn’t even write her own books! At least get somebody who can write, for crissakes.”
Vaughan wrinkled her nose. “Like Jane Smiley?”
“Forget it. Smiley has no sex appeal. You might as well get Barbara Bush.”
“Don’t be mean. Barbara Bush wrote a lovely book.”
“One book,” Davenport said. “Short conference.”
Vaughan objected. “But Dee-dee, think of the appeal! The patriotism!”
“What would the professors say about her book?”
“If they can make up nonsense about Edith Wharton, Barbara Bush shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Granted. But Bush is a hag. And people have already forgotten her.”
Grace-Dawn nodded. “Okay.”
I didn’t mention that Mrs. Bush had written her book with a dog, because I wasn’t sure if that would make Grace-Dawn’s imaginary conference more or less appealing.
“Madonna wrote a book,” I offered. “With pictures.”
Grace-Dawn squinted at me. “Yes, I saw it, and it has too much sex.”
Davenport frowned, as if doubting that could be possible, and I wondered if this interplay between them was some kind of postmodern lounge act. They couldn’t be serious, could they?
“Listen,” Davenport said to me, without preamble. “I heard you’ve been nosing around to find out who did it. Don’t bother asking who told me. That’s not the point. There’s no fucking way I could have killed either Chloe DeVore or Priscilla Davidoff, if you’re thinking I did it. Right after the reception and before we had to do those speeches, Grace and I dived into the bar here for a quick drink—a real one, not that pissant stuff you had at the reception. Grace wanted to stop at the crapper before getting to the auditorium, so I gave her a head start and had another.”
Grace-Dawn smiled at me as if to say, Isn’t his crudeness adorable?
“The bartender remembered me.”
Well, I didn’t doubt that. And I wondered how many drinks they’d actually had. Alcohol might explain Grace-Dawn’s attempted flights of fancy in her keynote speech, and Davenport’s belligerence in his.
Was he bluffing, though? I couldn’t check that with Valley after he’d warned me to mind my own business, could I?
“Anyway,” Davenport rolled on, “I wanted Chloe alive. I wanted her new book. The memoir. I know, I know, that’s not what I said to Detective Shmuck, but who cares. I don’t tell my business just because somebody asks me.”
Grace-Dawn frowned, busying herself with her cocktail napkin, and I assumed she was jealous of Chloe, and maybe even alarmed that Davenport had admitted lying to the police.
“Even if we couldn’t bag the hardcover, we could still go for the paperback rights.”
“Yes,” Grace-Dawn said, looking up as if taking a cue. “And I was planning to spoof Chloe in my new book. So much more satisfying than killing her for real.”
I’d been silent all through this strange interchange, but now I asked Davenport, “You wanted to publish Chloe DeVore’s memoir and publish a book by someone satirizing Chloe DeVore?”
Davenport said, “Sure, why not? We’d clean up! Think of the coverage!”
I glanced from Davenport to Grace-Dawn, both looking very sincere in their insincerity. I decided that Davenport wasn’t bullshitting me, and that he certainly didn’t have as good a reason to kill Chloe as I’d thought. Neither did Grace-Dawn, unless it was to keep Davenport from signing Chloe. Maybe, as his obvious favorite author, she was jealous and threatened, fearful that someone like Chloe, “the one who got away,” could displace her. But that wasn’t rational, since Chloe had never maintained best-seller status.
Stefan would probably say, “When is murder rational?” Jeez, I’d said something like that myself.
“Okay,” I said to Davenport. “What about Priscilla’s death?”
Grace-Dawn took my arm and said, “Frankly, I think the two murders are just the work of some maniac—probably a homosexual, since they hate women as a rule, you know.”
Furious, I yanked my arm away. “That’s ridiculous. That’s an outdated stereotype! I’m gay and I like women! Lots of women!”
“Then you’re obviously different,” Vaughan sniffed. “Though yelling at me is hardly the way to prove it.”
I was about to start shouting when Davenport muttered, “Calm down,” as if Grace-Dawn had merely expressed a peculiar taste in sandwich spreads. “Chloe’s murderer is either Crane Taylor or Gustaf Carmichael. That’s what I think.”
“Why?”
“Nothing to it. Not everybody knows this, but Chloe was married to Taylor when she did her first book, and the divorce was bad news. For them, I mean. They kept it quiet. So then the two of them end up here by chance years later—so why not off her? Hell, I’m surprised she didn’t kill him first. Hey, maybe she was trying to and he got the upper hand.”
“And Gustaf Carmichael,” Grace-Dawn prompted.
Davenport shrugged his burly shoulders. “Simple. The guy teaches at a shitty branch campus of the University of Ohio, never got a better job. You think he wouldn’t blame Chloe for nuking his first book in the New York Times? That review finished Carmichael,” he said casually. “His book sold three hundred copies. Nobody wanted to touch him after that.”
I was persuaded by this last argument, because I knew very well that promotion and moving to another school are impossible without major publications, and I also understood the depth of humiliation an author can suffer from a very public bad review. Stefan still raged about a bad review in Chuppah, the pretentious, pseudo-intellectual liberal Jewish quarterly claiming to “marry Jewish tradition and contemporary inquiry.”
Grace-Dawn called the waiter over, and ordered another champagne cocktail, offering to get me a drink, but I passed. “My theory is that they did it together,” she said. “Carmichael and Taylor both killed Chloe.”
“I’ll tell you who else looks funny to me,” Davenport said, downing the last of his drink. “That Jones fart and the leather jacket babe. They’ve been acting shifty since Chloe was killed, and all that yelling in public, maybe that’s a cover. Maybe they’ve been making themselves conspicuous so nobody’s going to think they’re suspects.”
Grace-Dawn nodded eagerly, enjoying Davenport’s theorizing. He was right about finding Jones and Gallup suspicious—they worried me, too.
“Wait a minute,” I objected. “What are their motives? And what would they have wanted to kill Priscilla for? If you start suspecting conferees who’re odd or suspicious, everyone’s a suspect.”
Davenport grinned. It was an unpleasant display of very white equine teeth. “You got that right, kiddo. Authors may be scum, but you professors, you’re road kill. You wouldn’t believe the morons who’ve been hitting on me here, trying to pitch me half-assed book ideas. Like they even have a clue for what makes a book sell.”
Davenport and Grace-Dawn exchanged a loving glance. They clearly had the secret, and were an unbeatable team. And I suppose they were: seven best-sellers and 223 million copies of her books in print.
Given all Davenport’s blustering and bluntness, I asked myself if he might not be doing exactly what he had just accused Van Deegan Jones and Verity Gallup of doing: making himself conspicuous in order to throw sand in people’s eyes. I was saved from any more diatribes when Stefan called to me from the entrance to the bar. I joined him and Angie at a nearby table out of Davenport’s and Grace-Dawn’s sight line. I had the waiter bring us all coffee.
“So?” I said.
Angie and Stefan both looked tired and disappointed. They had learned nothing today. Angie said she’
d left a long message for Detective Valley, “But I haven’t talked to him. It’s so frustrating.”
“Well, get this,” I said. I told them about retrieving the registration list from Serena, and finding the Wharton-related book tide on Priscilla’s computer before that.
Angie repeated it: “The Ethan Frome Murders. Yuck.”
Stefan blinked a few times. “You went to Priscilla’s house? You stole a key and—”
“Borrowed a key. Borrowed.”
“But what if Valley had found you?”
“Actually, he did.” I felt cocky now, since Valley hadn’t arrested me.
Angie shook her head, clearly impressed by my pluck. “This is awesome,” she said. “I wish I’d been there instead of trailing around looking at shrubs and eavesdropping on nothing.”
“It’s not great. He’s a felon,” Stefan said, obviously forcing himself to speak quietly.
“Stefan, that’s not important. What’s important is that Valley’s convinced that Priscilla was murdered. So where does that leave us?”
“Let’s check out the registration list,” Angie suggested, and I pulled the two stapled pages from their envelope and set them down on the table where we could all see. We slowly matched names and faces, and came up with seven people who’d been attending sessions but weren’t down as registered: me, Stefan, Serena, Bob Gillian, Joanne Gillian, Devon Davenport, and Grace-Dawn Vaughan.
Angie asked me, “Why didn’t the two main speakers register?”
“It’s a courtesy to cover a speaker’s registration fees.”
“Oh.”
“But when I was waiting for you two, I was sitting with Davenport and Vaughan, and they spent a lot of time trying to convince me that they’re innocent. And they put the blame on Gustaf Carmichael, Crane Taylor, Van Deegan Jones, and Verity Gallup.”
Angie clapped her hands together. “This is like a movie!” she exulted. “What if fingerprints and registration don’t have anything to do with who killed Chloe and Priscilla? We’re back to where we started.” The prospect didn’t faze her at all. Was it the coffee?
Stefan mumbled something.
“What?”
He wouldn’t look at me. “This is pointless. We split up for the afternoon and all we’ve done is waste time.”
“It could be worse,” I said.
“How?”
“In mystery movies, when people split up, somebody usually disappears or gets killed.”
Angie smiled, but Stefan was not about to let me shake him from his mood. “There has to be something we can accomplish. The answer has to be in the Edith Wharton books they found at the scene of each crime. Those are the only real clues.”
“Look,” Angie said, pointing. “There’s our detective.”
Valley was walking down the hallway and he stopped at the door when he saw us. He seemed to be debating a point, and then must have decided, because he came right over to our table.
“Professor Hoffman, you may be onto something with the finger prints/registration business. I’m bringing another detective with me to ask all the people at dinner who aren’t registered to step outside so we can double-check whether their fingerprints have been taken.”
I slid my hand over the list on the table, but Valley saw me, and said, “I guess you know who they are, too.” He left before I could think of anything to say.
DINNER SEEMED AN edgy affair, perhaps because there was a rumor going around that the conferees might have to stay beyond the end of the conference Sunday morning, since the Campus Police hadn’t solved any thing.
Serena snubbed me when Stefan, Angie, and I entered the dining room, as if she knew we suspected her. Van Deegan Jones and Verity Gallup were whispering to each other once again. Devon Davenport and Grace-Dawn Vaughan seemed very pleased with themselves, and were sitting at a table with Gustaf Carmichael and Crane Taylor. The Gillians arrived, and I bristled at the way they both stopped in the doorway as if expecting some kind of ovation, or at least attention—like Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip.
“Maybe they’re practicing,” I whispered to Stefan.
“What for?”
“For when Joanne’s governor of Michigan, and Bob’s her consort.”
Stefan looked like he wanted to puke.
Watching the Gillians smugly make their way to a table, I said, “How did I ever imagine Bob Gillian could be likable?”
Now, that made Stefan smile. “Nick, you’re a very enthusiastic guy. Sometimes it’s about the right things, sometimes it isn’t.”
“I was right about you,” I said, a little defensively. “Wasn’t I?”
Angie beamed at the two of us as if she were a matchmaker pleased with her work. I wondered briefly if she might be gay, or have a gay brother or friends. She was so relaxed around the two of us, but maybe it was just progress. At the same time that some students on campus seemed incredibly intolerant of all minorities, others tended to be very matter-of-fact about homosexuality.
Suddenly, Joanne Gillian stood up and loudly proclaimed, “Let’s have a moment of silence.” The attempt at solemnity was undermined by rolls being brought out by the waiters and waitresses from the kitchens through the service entrance at the back of the room. “A moment of silence for those who have left us,” Joanne added sententiously, in her best I-speak-to-God voice.
Amid much embarrassed sighing and chair scraping, silence fell on the room for a minute, as everyone followed her lead and stood, except Devon Davenport, at first, until Grace-Dawn yanked at his arm.
“Amen,” Joanne said, and I wondered what her private prayer had been.
We all sat down as relieved as if we’d been standing for hours, and I despised her for having turned Chloe’s and Priscilla’s deaths into an opportunity for a studied act of pretentious religiosity.
The dull salad was followed by more acceptable gumbo, the food animating everyone more than I would have expected. Maybe people were glad to have had a break to tour the campus, sleep, screw, plot against their rivals. The entree was good—a vegetarian lasagna with real kick to it—and I felt myself beginning to unwind.
But it was all pretty hopeless. The two deaths would go unsolved just like crimes in a big city, I wouldn’t get tenure, and we’d begin an impossible job search, but somehow it didn’t matter anymore. I was burned out by all the worrying and commotion.
Stefan must have been feeling better, though, because he started teasing me, telling me that he’d planned a surprise dinner for me when the conference was over. “You deserve the best after all this.”
I didn’t object.
“But, Nick, if you ever agree to organize another conference, I’ll put you on bread and water, and start an enemies list.”
The others at the table seemed amused, but vague, as if they couldn’t or didn’t want to follow.
“Wait,” I said. “Enemies.”
Everyone stared at me.
“Stefan, come on!” I rushed out of the dining room to find the nearest and quietest corner. Stefan had followed, looking as perplexed as if he thought I might finally have snapped.
He sat right by me on a couch with a view of the dining room doorway. “What’s going on?”
“Priscilla told me a few months ago that her new book was called Sleeping with the Enemy. And when I checked her computer, she had a directory called ENEMY I forgot to tell you about. It was empty, just like the other one. I thought the title was a reference to the Julia Roberts movie, and it probably is, but what if it was something much more personal? What if it’s about the killer? I mean, whoever became the killer—whoever killed Priscilla, and Chloe. I don’t know if that was really her new book and someone deleted all the files, or what. But it was definitely important if it had its own directory.”
Stefan chewed all that over a little, and asked, “You’re saying that Priscilla was sleeping with someone who was an enemy. What kind of enemy?”
Feeling a little dizzy, I closed my eyes. The answer suddenly seemed
as stark as fresh footprints on a snow-covered driveway. “Who would her enemy be?” I asked. “Who would she despise that would feel the same way about her, at least publicly?”
Stefan shook his head.
“Someone at SUM who’s politically conservative, and opposed to everything she believes in, right?”
Stefan looked thunderstruck. “Joanne Gillian? That’s impossible! She’s not gay.”
“Oh, it’s better than that. Bob Gillian.”
“Impossible—he’s a guy.”
“Exactly. The ‘enemy’ to some lesbians, and some feminists. That part might have been a little joke for Priscilla.”
“This doesn’t make sense.”
Leaning towards him, I felt my face growing hot with conviction. “It makes total sense, Stefan. Remember Angie said they didn’t find fingerprints on the granite tile Chloe was killed with? Bob likes to carry those driving gloves with him. He could have slipped them on before killing her, and then shoved them back into his pockets. They’re that really thin leather—nobody would notice because they wouldn’t take up any room. And they wouldn’t leave prints.”
Stefan frowned, unconvinced.
“Come on, Stefan, this has to be it. Who would have time to kill someone right out there in the hallway where they might be discovered, and then wipe the granite tile off so thoroughly it was clean?”
“Nobody,” Stefan said, blinking.
“That’s right. Nobody. But you wouldn’t have to if you were wearing gloves. Why’s Bob here at the conference, anyway? Joanne wants to be on the scene because she thinks it’s Sodom and Gomorrah, but why would he need to be here? He’s been stalking them, stalking Chloe and Priscilla.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t have a motive. Bob could have done it, he could have killed both of them, but why?”
